


After Darkness, Light

by pureselfindulgence



Category: White Collar
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Consensual Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kink, M/M, S&M, Sexual Content, Slash, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:29:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pureselfindulgence/pseuds/pureselfindulgence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a BDSM scene with Neal, Peter devotes himself to aftercare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Darkness, Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabidchild67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/gifts).



> Written for rabidchild's H/C Comfest 2013 prompt: "Someone taking excellent care of Neal after an intense BDSM scene."

In the past, there are lies, betrayals, and chases.  
  
In the future, there is scheming, conniving, and stratagem.  
  
In the present, there is only Neal.  
  
The endless layers of his façade have been peeled away with patience, with care, and with an utter lack of mercy. In the end, there is no pretense and no polish left. He lies limply on the rumpled sheets, expression vacant, breathing harsh.  
  
And he's more beautiful like this, Peter thinks, than he is any other way.  
  
In public, Neal is Grecian marble, always. Sculpted contours, lean planes, perfect poise. But his tailored suits could never caress his body the way the whip does. They don't make him whimper. They don't make him react. They don't make him alive.  
  
Peter can't resist. He leans down, licks a swollen welt on Neal's thigh. There is a shudder, then stillness. He tastes sweat and submission, sweet-and-sour desire.  
  
His hands and his lips glide over Neal's body while he undoes the cuffs holding his lover spread-eagled, face down. They both know that escape is always on the menu, but it is a much more delicious dish if it's never ordered.  
  
Even once the cuffs are gone, Neal doesn't move. Peter moves for him, unbuckling the gag and untying the blindfold, gathering him close.  
  
He knows Neal has gone somewhere else.  
  
It's time to bring him back.  
  
Peter starts with Neal's hand. He strokes it, explores it, feeling the deep-set indentations in the palm, where a fist clenched and fingernails were driven into yielding flesh. He murmurs words of praise, interlacing their fingers while Neal pants into his shoulder.   
  
At first, the answering handclasp is hard, desperate. Peter is patient. He cradles his lover, threading his free hand through the dark, damp waves of hair. Minutes before, his grasp was cruel and demanding; now, it is intimate, as he fits the curve of his hand to the curve of Neal's skull. His touch is delicate, because Neal is a rare treasure, and Peter must be careful.   
  
Gradually, Neal's grip relaxes, while Peter croons his pride.  
  
The eyes that Peter so loves are still distant, gazing at inner vistas he can only guess at. When Neal's breathing eases, Peter slowly reclaims his hands. He shifts, still quiet and gentle, until he can begin to massage the knots from the other man's muscles. There are many, but he is thorough. When he is done, Neal is nearly boneless, and his eyes are fixed on something much closer to earth.  
  
When they move to the shower, it is almost dreamlike, but Peter doesn't mind that Neal is half-sleepwalking. These nights are a gift and a responsibility, and precious beyond measure. Sometimes it goes to Peter's head, intoxicating him, but most of the time, he is simply—almost frighteningly—thankful.  
  
The warm water pours life back into Neal, and he reinhabits his body by degrees, until he is once again himself, vitality pulsing to the very boundaries of his skin. Only his eyes, normally sparkling with mischief, are still soft and vulnerable.  
  
When Neal winces at the sting of water on broken skin, Peter helps him wash, tenderly wiping away the residue of sweat and tears. He speaks words of affirmation and gratitude.  
  
They dry each other with luxuriously soft towels. Afterwards, Neal looks intently into the mirror while he runs his hands over the fresh marks striped on his pale skin. His expression, of wonder and pleasure, almost makes Peter stop breathing.  
  
They return to the bed with Neal's arms draped over Peter's shoulders, and fall into it in a tangle of limbs and bare flesh.   
  
There is only one pause, when Peter makes Neal drink a glass of water, swallow some aspirin. He turns the lights off and drags the coverlet up, then gathers Neal into his arms once more.  
  
Neal's lips taste like the past and the future, but mostly, the glorious and ever-moving present, and Peter can't bear to let him go.  
  
In a whisper, he tells his love.  
  
"I'll always catch you," he breathes.  
  
Neal caresses his cheek.  
  
"I know."


End file.
